Conflict of Interest
by written in dreams
Summary: Mikel Dayan hates owing people. Which means that when she runs across Eliot on the wrong side of twelve very angry adversaries, she has no choice but to step in.


My head canon is that Eliot's not Leverage-exclusive, that he still does outside jobs. Not for bad guys necessarily, but still outside jobs. Also, I thought the Mikel character and her rapport with Eliot was awesome, so had to bring her back.

* * *

**Conflict of Interest**

* * *

Mikel Dayan is not a fan of owing people favors. They aren't a common occurrence—in fact, she can't even think of another instance besides this one—considering she works alone and she can more than take care of herself, but she still hates them. Oh she has people that owe _her_ favors, but not the other way around. Which is why this annoys her. A lot. Every day it weighs on her.

She's in Palestine when it happens. She doesn't believe in coincidences, but she can't think of what else this could be. She's supposed to retrieve a particularly valuable piece of merchandise for a very rich benefactor, and the job is supposed to be very straightforward. Locate the warehouse, sneak in, grab the item, get out. Simple.

Or, well, not so simple. As she finds out when she slips inside the building, peeks around a corner, and sees no fewer than twelve men with very large guns surrounding another man, beat to hell and shackled. All of the men are focused on the wounded one, meaning none of them are paying attention to the item _she_ wants, which she spies about fifteen yards away. It will require some finessing to get past everyone without them noticing, but this is hardly the most difficult predicament she's been in.

She hears one of the men ask the captured in Hebrew who sent him, and from the sounds of it it's not the first time, but she's more focused on the task at hand. Just as she begins to move towards the merchandise, however, the captured man answers.

"You've been asking me for twenty-four hours; you think I'll crack _now_?"

Mikel stops short. The man had spoken in Hebrew, but it was accented. An accent she's heard precisely once before. She turns and focuses on the man in the center. His hair is matted with blood and sweat, his eye is swollen shut, his shoulder is clearly separated, and the rest of him is a myriad of blood and injuries sickeningly plentiful, but underneath all that she can finally identify who it is.

"_Yeshua_," she swears. It's been two years, but it comes back to her with a jolt.

"_You wouldn't hit a girl, would you?"_

"_Not unless she hits me first." The heel of a palm to the sternum. An unintentional grunt. "That counts."_

_A fight, a kiss, fantastic sex._

As if sensing the new presence, he looks up, ever so discreetly. In their happiness at catching the man who had given, well, _everyone_ trouble, they don't think to follow his line of sight. His eyes land on hers, and though the average person would think his expression stays the same, she's not average. She sees the surprise there and even a bit of relief. She should feel miffed that he's apparently counting on her saving him, but she doesn't. Because she knows the outcome just as he does. She doesn't like it, but she knows it.

They only hold eye contact for a few seconds, but an entire conversation is passed. Eliot looks up at his captor and says, "One of yours?"

The captor blinks. "What?"

Eliot gestures to behind the captor, where Mikel had calmly walked. "Hello, boys," she says lightly.

Mikel's not a fan of guns either, but she is an avid supporter of knives, and from a sheath on her back she pulls out a very long, very sharp blade. There's a second of confusion from the side of Eliot's captors, and then Mikel's just a blur, her knife slicing easily through the Palestinian flesh. Eliot's adrenaline kicks into gear at the same time, and his pain magically dissipates. He stands up and, despite his hands being handcuffed, wreaks havoc of his own. The brawn is good, he'll give them that, but they weren't expecting the onslaught, and even an subpar Eliot is better than nearly anyone.

The fight is over almost comically quickly, and when the only breathing in the room is the two specialists', Eliot looks over at his de facto savior. She wipes the blood from her weapon on Bad Guy #7's shirt and re-sheaths it, then dangles the handcuffs key in front of Eliot. He glares at her and holds out his hands expectantly. She laughs but then complies, unlocking the cuffs and courteously pretending she doesn't notice Eliot's wince as he rubs his blistered and raw wrists.

"Dayan."

"Spencer."

"What are you doing here?" English now.

Mikel flips that linguistic switch in her brain and responds in kind, "Saving your life."

Eliot snorts. "Uh huh." He glances around the room twice before settling on a gold statue. "Let me guess. That?"

Mikel shrugs. "Not my taste, but a job's a job."

A not uncomfortable silence falls, and then, his adrenaline and self-preservation depleted, Eliot stumbles. Mikel darts forward and steadies him, giving a rough apology when he hisses at her grip on his ribcage.

"You look terrible," she observes.

"Do I?" Eliot asks sarcastically. He tries to twist out of Mikel's grasp, but between her strength and his lack of, it's a futile effort. "What are you doing?"

Mikel purses her lips, giving Eliot a once-over. "Come with me," she says after a moment of decision. Pausing only to retrieve the statue and stuff it in a box, she leads the unwilling Eliot out of the warehouse, finagles him up behind her on the horse she'd rode in on, and hightails it to her safe house. Eliot does his best to stifle his pained groans from the jostling of the horse, not quite succeeding, but Mikel admires the effort.

Well-stocked in medical supplies like any hitter worth their salt, Mikel shoves four aspirin into Eliot's palm, which he swallows immediately, then sets to fixing him up. He protests at first—"I'm not a fucking invalid, Dayan."—but she's not exactly a pushover, especially in Eliot's condition. So after finding out his resistance only makes her poking and prodding more painful, he relents.

By the time she's done, he's covered in gauze, tape, rubbing alcohol, bandages, and his hair soaked where she'd flushed the blood out of it. The aspirin helps with the pain, but he still feels like he'd been run over by a tank.

He watches Mikel as she cleans up the supplies and pours herself some kind of liquor he's pretty sure the FDA would let nowhere near US shelves. She downs two shots before returning his stares.

"What?"

He swallows. "Thank you."

"This makes us even," she says.

Eliot nods, declining to mention that what she'd done _more _than makes them even. After all, all he'd done was not turn her over to the cops. She'd saved his _life_. "So how are you?" he asks. He's not usually much for talking, but he doesn't feel like heading back on the run so soon, and besides, Mikel intrigues him.

"Fine," she replies. "The world hasn't heard of what happened in the States yet."

Eliot smiles. "They won't. Hardison wiped your file."

"He…what?" she gapes, wondering if she'd translated his words wrong. "Why?"

"I asked him to," replies Eliot nonchalantly. "You're the best fighter I've seen. Can't have you rotting behind bars. So long as you don't get in _my_ way."

Mikel looks down at her hands and picks at the blood and dirt under her fingernails, not quite sure what to say.

"Don't worry, Hardison doesn't expect any favors back," Eliot says. "He got his shots in when I asked."

Mikel nods—good. She hated owing Eliot, but she'd _loathe_ owing some computer geek.

Eliot begins to say something else, but then notices something. "Hang on, you've got, uh…" He steps forward to peer at a long cut on the side of her face that had been previously covered by her hair. "What happened?"

Mikel slaps his hand away. "Nothing," she snaps. "Just—one of them was wearing spikes and he grazed me."

_More than a graze_, Eliot observes, the cut jagged and deep.

Figuring it's his turn now, he forces her to sit on the edge of the bed and, gathering some of the supplies she'd so neatly put away, makes quick work of cleaning it up. It'll leave a nasty scar, but in their line of work, scars are badges of honor and a colorful life history.

She appraises him with an expression he can't quite identify, and then at the same instant, just as in the warehouse, they know what's going to happen. Avoiding the cut he'd just patched up, Eliot cups her face and presses his swollen lips to hers, the dual sense of familiarity and danger just as heady as it'd been the last time he'd seen her. She breaks away from him, her eyes spitting fire. He's pretty sure she's about to bestow on him some injuries of her own, but instead she shoves him onto the bed and climbs on top of him. Her grin is somewhat frightening, but to be fair, he's fairly certain his is probably as well.

Clothes are discarded awkwardly but efficiently, and they find a rhythm easily. In a stark contrast to both of their jobs, it's surprisingly gentle and attentive, though doesn't stay that way for long. She's made her living on people either underestimating her or considering her a guy, but Eliot's one of the few who doesn't. They're both well-aware of the fact they're at best stalemated, but there's also mutual respect and, let's be honest, mutual attractiveness.

Eliot forgot what this felt like. Oh he'd been with many women, many of them spectacular, but with her it was—is—different. Her skin is full of flaws, scars decorating her everywhere, her hands are callused, her gasps of pleasure are in a husky foreign language, and her body is a weapon instead of something to put on display and look pretty, but damn if it doesn't drive him insane. He's so used to having to be careful with women, because they're usually so _fragile_, but she couldn't be further in the opposite direction. She doesn't _purposefully_ press on his injuries but she doesn't avoid them either; and if he's a little rough with her, she simply takes it as a challenge. They're both accustomed to pain and bruises that it merely intensifies the experience.

They fight for dominance, neither really gaining the upper hand, neither wanting to break first. When they finally do it's simultaneous, and both come away with new marks—Eliot with bright red fingernail scratches down his back, Mikel with purple handprints on her hips and teeth indentations on her neck. She slides her leg over his, dangerously close to his crotch, as he wraps an arm around her waist, fingers splaying just underneath her breast. The sunrise streams in through the windows, illuminating the room in a pinkish glow, and as Eliot looks down at her, a not insignificant part of him wishes they weren't adversaries. (He blames the thought on his faculties being utterly spent.)

"Do all Americans think this loud?" asks Mikel, her voice slightly muffled against his chest.

He laughs, but doesn't answer her question. "Where are you going next?"

Mikel looks up at him. "You think I'd tell _you_ that, Spencer?"

Eliot shrugs, not bothering to conceal the wince as the movement angers his shoulder. "I feel used."

Mikel chuckles, turning her attention instead to Eliot's torso which finally decided to show its abuse. His ribs are a deep blue, lacerations angry and red. "Oh."

"Think you owe me another favor," he says. "You made my injuries worse."

Mikel smiles, setting warning bells off in his head. But he finds himself incapable of doing anything about it as she shifts away from his side and moves lower—much lower. She'd said she doesn't like owing people, and through the haze rapidly clouding his brain, he thinks she's fulfilled this one. He shuts his eyes and marvels at the fact that he's letting almost all of his guard down around someone who could kick his ass if she wanted, but then, she's doing the same which makes his eyes darken with yet more desire.

Neither are quite sure where the next few hours go, just that by the time clarity does return, sleep claims them.

* * *

Mikel wakes first as a result of, she assumes, Eliot's body telling him his injuries need rest while she's mostly healthy. The way he holds her to him is almost comforting, which snaps her mind into focus. Comfort in their line of work is _not_ okay. Still, she takes a few minutes to enjoy the warmth before carefully extricating herself. He stirs but doesn't awaken, and she silently dresses, doing her best to ignore the aching between her thighs.

She stuffs the statue into her bag along with the few safe house provisions of hers, and readies to leave. She pauses with her hand on the doorknob though, glancing back at the man in her bed. Every rule of her training tells her not to, but she ignores them and scribbles something on a piece of stained paper. With that, she makes tracks, mounting her horse and heading towards her benefactor's residence to collect her fee.

* * *

The coolness next to him is what rouses Eliot, and he knows before he even opens his eyes that she's gone. He groans as he sits up, his broken ribs scratching against each other, and carefully pulls on his clothes. The bed is a disaster, which he takes some satisfaction in. He looks around the house and then out the window, noting that both Mikel's belongings and her horse have vanished, and surmises she'd gone to deliver her spoils.

It's as he starts to leave himself that he notices the paper. Curious, he reads the digits at the top then the thick, hasty words below it.

_Use this number to cross me and I'll kill you._

_There's a group of horses two kilometers west of here. It's where I got mine._

_You weren't half-bad._

_Mikel_

Eliot smirks. "Not half-bad," he echoes to himself, knowing it's an understatement. Then his face sobers as he realizes what exactly the note means. That she'd not only left a note _period_ but her phone number sets off warning _church bells_ in his head. He doesn't _do_ connections, he just doesn't. Especially not with someone like Mikel Dayan. And he's damn sure she doesn't do connections either. He wouldn't be surprised if it's not even her number in the first place. Eliot rips up the note and throws the remnants outside where the wind carries them away. Then curses himself that he'd even read the thing, because he'd long ago trained himself to have a photographic memory. Which means her number and words are forever burned in his retinas in bright neon colors.

With his brain conspiring against him, he packs up some of the medical supplies and a knife he finds under the bed and exits the safe house. The landscape is vast, but the sun doesn't lie and so he heads west where Mikel had indicated he could acquire a ride. The tiny memory card he'd secured into his boot presses against his heel, but he smiles; the Palestinians had searched him everywhere _except_ inside his boots. Which means he's still very much entitled to the handsome imbursement from the Pentagon, and he's pretty sure he can get some more on top of it due to his injuries.

He knows they'll ask him how he got said injuries, and he knows he'll answer them. He just might…leave out certain details.


End file.
